


Break

by hdarchive



Series: What I Need [18]
Category: Glee
Genre: Anal Sex, BadBoy!Blaine, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 11:57:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6194320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hdarchive/pseuds/hdarchive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is not a good person. It's time Kurt sees that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to say this took forever to get out because I didn't want to reach the end, but really it's because it was pretty challenging to write! What a monster. It also turned out a lot more graphic than I had intended, whoops.
> 
> Also, [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0K5j38AVRpI) has been my Blaine anthem for 3 years, and perfectly applies to the Blaine in this story. I might have sobbed and sang along to it while writing all of this.

Whatever happens, he knows he deserves it.

This school is where dreams go to die, and where doers go to fail.

He spent the entire night trying to stay calm, to keep breathing, to shut down his mind and to just not care because he can’t care anymore. Caring and trying got him here. Now he can’t go anywhere.

So he thinks he’s fairly calm, his heart beating normally as he sits between his parents in Principal Figgins’ office, ready for whatever punishment they give him because he has no choice but to be ready for it.

As long as they understand what he was trying to do, he thinks he’ll be alright.

He knows it wasn’t the _right_ thing to do, he knows he should have thought it through and he shouldn’t have panicked and he knows the only reason he did is because he’s not a good person, he is just as bad as them. But the difference between him and them is that he’s in love with Kurt, and he’ll do anything to make sure _somebody_ is on his fucking side, even if he’s the only one.

He won’t apologize for that. He’ll keep fighting until somebody out there sees what he sees.

“The school has a zero-tolerance physical violence policy,” Figgins tells them, sitting nervous in his chair, and Blaine can’t blame him because his dad is kind of scary looking. Or maybe he’s scared of Blaine. “By assaulting Mr. Adams on school property, your son was in clear violation of that policy!”

Blaine leans back in his seat and laughs lowly, humorlessly. “Zero-tolerance on violence? Are you kidding me?”

There are two hands on him suddenly, belonging to two different people, his mom laying her hand on his thigh - and he realizes that she’s doing it to steady him, because he’s shaking - and his dad holding his shoulder, gripping the denim of his jacket tightly.

Figgins ignores him, locks eyes with his dad instead and says, “I’m afraid my hands are tied here.”

But no, he won’t just - sit here and let nothing happen. He didn’t do that for nothing. It’s not fair that you can ask for help only to be told you should have asked _nicer_. To be screaming for help and to still not be heard.

“You know what?” Blaine snaps, and jerks forward, Figgins immediately jolting back. “I don’t care. Go ahead, expel me or - or arrest me, I don’t care! But why is it okay for those asswipe football players to push people around, and not okay for me to fight back?”

“Blaine -” his dad warns lowly, pulling him back.

“No, no, better yet, why don’t you tell me why _nobody_ does anything when somebody asks for help? Open your fucking eyes! Or else this is gonna keep happening -”

“Blaine!”

His dad’s voice goes loud, the office goes quiet, and Blaine slumps defeatedly against the back of his chair.

His dad has been otherwise silent. When he met them at the front entrance of the school earlier he said nothing, only sighed and shook his head and didn’t ask any questions about what happened or why.

Nobody is on his side. He doesn’t deserve anybody on his side because he put himself in this spot, he made the decision to get himself here, but who cares about him? Who’s going to be on Kurt’s side?

“None of you get it . . .” he says to his hands, holding them together, studying the cuts on his knuckles. He doesn’t even remember getting those. “You don’t know what it’s like here. Nobody cares. I had to do something.”

Figgins clears his throat, folds his hands on top of his desk, and Blaine figures he’s just another guy, doing his job, trying to get through his day, but right now Blaine hates him.

“It is not a student’s duty to defend another student against -”

“Then whose is it? Because it sure doesn’t seem like yours.”

He’s not even fighting the punishment and they _still_ don’t get it.

“If there is a problem then you must alert a faculty member -”

“We _tried!_ ”

His lungs feel like they’re full of hot water, burning him from the inside out and not letting him breathe. His mom takes his hand and he lets her, too tired to keep fighting, hangs his head back and takes a few deep breathes. “. . nobody _gets_ it . .”

His dad touches his shoulder again, more hesitant this time, and clears his throat in the way he does when he’s about to lay out a punishment, the way he does when he’s about to tell Blaine how disappointed he is.

His dad feels so far away. He’s always felt far away. But right now, when Blaine needs him most, it’s like he’s not even there.

He’s mostly angry at himself. For swearing to himself that he would never need his dad again, only to put himself into a situation where he does. Proving his dad right.

Are you happy now? I’m exactly what you think I am. A huge fucking failure.

“I think Blaine’s right.”

He immediately sits up straight, eyes blown wide, mouth hanging open uselessly as no words come out.

His dad doesn’t look at him, keeps his eyes on Figgins, and continues with, “I think you need to take a look at my son, and tell me what you see.”

Principal Figgins sits there stunned, just like Blaine, his eyes switching back from him to his dad to his mom.

“Mr. Anderson, I do not believe -”

“Answer the question. You owe my son that.”

“I - I have no choice but to see him as a dangerous threat to the student body -”

“Do you know what I see?” His dad finally looks at him, and holds his gaze, and if eyes could tell stories then his dad is writing novels filled with apologies. “I see a child put in a situation with no way out. He was doing what he thought he had to do. Look at his face.”

Blaine’s jaw tightens, throat rough as he swallows, lets himself be weak in this moment because he can’t fight against the urge to break.

“Look at his face and tell me, do you really think he wanted this to happen? He had to get _stitches_. Nobody ever _asks_ to be hurt like that.”

And suddenly, maybe for the first time since he was ten, he feels admiration for his dad. Always been the enemy, the monster, the reason he wanted to escape, and maybe he still is and maybe he always will be but right now, sounding calm and strong and there, Blaine looks up to him.

Figgins remains frozen.

“Mr. Anderson, I am terribly sorry but your son _attacked_ another student on school property -”

His mom adds her other hand over his, keeping him contained, and when he looks at her she smiles, not helplessly but encouragingly.

And for the first time since he was born, his parents actually feel like parents.

“I understand that, but if you could just open your eyes and look at him, you’ll see what’s been happening in this school under your supervision.” His dad pushes his glasses back, takes a deep breath and glances at Blaine again, like he’s taking the moment for himself to actually see. “You need to be evaluating the actions of your students more carefully, because if you take one look at Blaine’s face, I think you’ll see that their intentions were not any better than his.”

His chest lurches, his eyes water, his heart beats and he breathes.

The office goes silent again, and he looks at his dad and wants to say _thank you_ but he doesn’t know how. He smiles, just barely, and nods, and his dad nods back.

“And while I don’t approve of his methods, I do believe Blaine was trying his best to make things right. If he says his concerns were expressed before, I’d like a straight answer as to why they were ignored. If not, we’d be more than happy to go above you to find one.”

Hope comes alive in his blood, reanimating his entire body, and he laughs quietly and low and full of disbelief, looks between both his parents and blinks, because there’s no way they’re being real.

They’ve never been on his side before. Nobody ever really has been.

His dad leans back in his chair, crosses one leg over the other and raises both hands in question. “Well?”

Figgins looks -

Terrified.

But he nods, and he sighs, and he looks down at his folded hands and says, “Perhaps we can work something out.”

-

Getting out of the office feels like escaping a war zone.

He pushes out into the hallway, and right before the door closes behind him all three voices in the office rise. Just because his dad has a way with words doesn’t mean he can overturn the rules of the school, but he’s trying.

Fighters. His parents have always been fighters. At least now it’s not against each other.

The hallway isn’t perfectly silent though, a panicked voice immediately calling out to him.

“Blaine.”

He looks up to see Kurt sitting on the staircase, quickly getting up and skipping his way down the steps and across the hall, his footsteps loud against the floor.

It’s instinct. He has to. He opens his arms up and pulls Kurt in and lets out the stupidest most hopeful, helpless laugh. Deliriously relieved, especially now, and he twists his hands and pulls desperately at the material of Kurt’s jacket, doesn’t want to let go.

“What - what happened?” Kurt asks frantically, his own hands mapping out Blaine’s back, squeezing everywhere he can. “What’s going to happen?”

They pull back to look at each other, and Kurt’s eyes are watery, his smile scared.

He tries to give him some of his hope, forces it into his smile and says, “I’m not really sure, they’re still talking it over but - but it looks like a suspension.”

Kurt’s breath comes out hard, relieved, and the fear fades from his eyes. “Oh thank god.”

He swallows and has to look away.

“Until the end of the year.”

Kurt’s grip goes slack, his hands slipping away, entire face twisting with confusion. “Wait, what?” he splutters, eyes switching from Blaine’s face to the office behind them.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and stares down at his feet. “A suspension, Kurt.”

“So you’re not -”

Trying so hard to remain strong, to not cave, to let Kurt know he’s okay with it, he shrugs and fills in the blanks for him. “I’m not graduating.”

Just like his parents did, Kurt explodes, confusion wiped from his face and replaced with anger.

“That’s not fair!” Kurt pushes away from him, hands curled into fists, and Blaine wants to kiss away the furrow between his brows. “There’s only a couple weeks left they can’t - that’s not fair. Can’t they think of anything else?”

“What else is there?” he asks, dejectedly, mouth twitching to the side. “The only other option is getting expelled, so I wouldn’t get to graduate either way. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine!”

He reaches for Kurt’s hands, which he shouldn’t, because he needs Kurt to let this go. “Kurt, it could have been worse.”

It should have been worse.

It was worth it though, he thinks. Having to give up on all his hopes and dreams, being helpless as they wash down the drain. But it’s his own fault, it’s what he deserves, and as long as Kurt’s are still intact then it’s fine. It has to be fine.

And even though he’s losing everything from this, at least they finally got somebody on their side.

That’s what he was trying to do in the first place.

Kurt still looks shattered, destroyed, so Blaine leans forward and hugs him again, whispers in his ear, “I’m sorry.”

Kurt touches his back, sounding hollow and drained as he asks, “So what do we do?”

“There’s nothing we can do.”

Kurt pulls back and looks so pleadingly at Blaine, so lost. “I mean about - us.”

He hasn’t actually thought about it.

But he knows the answer.

His mouth falls open and nothing comes out, because he can’t make himself say it yet. He can’t make himself say it _ever_.

Thankfully, the door to the office opens up, and his parents come out, both of them red in the face and aggravated, carrying it in the way they walk.

They only look at him and nod, as if to reassure all of Blaine’s fears.

He looks back to Kurt and shrugs again. Nothing they can do.

“Blaine has to clean out his locker,” his mom says to Kurt, patting him on the back. “He’ll talk to you later.”

Kurt nods understandingly, but gives Blaine one last hug, tighter than the past two, squeezes his arms around Blaine like he’s trying to leave an impression, then turns around and leaves, only looking back over his shoulder once.

Don’t look back, Kurt. Because soon I won’t be here.

Once he’s got all his things out of his locker, he walks with his parents out into the parking lot. He’s not sure what to say, if a _thank you_ is in order. He’s afraid it’ll break it, make it come untrue, make them go away.

In the blinding sunlight his dad squints at him, gives him a smile and says, “Are you going to be okay?”

No.

He shrugs, forcing a smile.

But his dad doesn’t leave, he just - looks at him like he doesn’t believe him.

“I can’t say I’m proud of you.”

“I don’t need you to.”

“I -”

“But why did you do all that?” he asks, too rough in his throat, too hurt, too hopeful. "You didn't have to."

His dad sighs, looks to Blaine’s mom, like they had some sort of conversation before to go over this, then looks back to Blaine and smiles again.

“My parents did everything they could to make it here in America, to give me a chance,” his dad says calmly, and Blaine’s not even sure if it’s him he’s talking to. “What kind of parent would I be if I let somebody else throw yours away?”

Blaine wants to laugh. This must be some sort of joke. This is what the punishment is. Spent his whole life trying to get his dad on his side, to give him a chance, and now that he has one it doesn’t even matter.

He doesn’t have a chance. He’s never had a chance.

Try and try and try and it never matters, because any chance he’s given he fails. That’s the formula to his entire fucking life.

“Thanks, I guess.”

His dad doesn’t say _you’re welcome._

Instead his dad says, “Looks like New York isn’t quite ready for you yet.”

There’s no response he can give to that, because he’s known that all along but he hasn’t allowed himself to accept it. It hurts along every nerve, every rib, in every bone that holds him.

And it breaks him.

-

It’s weird.

Ever since they made their crazy plan, that promise, he’s woken up every single day with purpose and with pride and with Kurt always on his mind. Their future. It propelled him forward, made him want to try, to get up when his alarm rang and to get out there and make an actual effort because soon he’d be free.

It’s weird not having that anymore.

Not just weird. It sucks. It hurts. If he thinks about it for too long it feels like his thoughts are cutting up his brain, his dreams suddenly broken glass inside of him. So he tries not to.

Because if he thinks about it, then he thinks about Kurt, and he thinks about how graduation is coming up quick and then Kurt’s going to leave, and he’ll still be here.

And if he thinks about that, then it’s a tennis match up in his brain. Stupid hope, still alive in there somewhere, wanting him to keep trying because eventually he’ll make it out, eventually he’ll catch up to Kurt.

On the other hand he thinks, well, no you won’t, because for every step you take forward you take another ten steps back.

Kurt doesn’t deserve that. He’s known that all along. They were dumb to think they could ever be on the same level. That they could ever exist together, hand in hand, on the same ground.

Blaine will always drag him down. Blaine will only hold him back.

Kurt’s a dreamer. They were never really meant to go together.

This is where he’ll stay, because he got himself here, but it’s only fair to let Kurt go because Kurt needs to go _somewhere_.

How to do that, he doesn’t know.

He really meant it when he promised Kurt forever.

-

His hands fumble a bit, too afraid of stabbing Kurt with the little pin, but he finally fastens the brooch to Kurt’s vest. He lifts his head up to smile at him but it doesn’t reach his eyes, doesn’t grow too wide, so he forces it, to show Kurt he’s not sad.

He is, but . . .

“You can still come,” Kurt says, eyes locked with Blaine’s, seeing right through his forced smile.

Maybe he's not as good at pretending as he thinks he is.

“No I can’t,” he says, dropping his hands by his sides. “So stop asking.”

“It’s an anti-prom, we won’t be setting foot anywhere near the school. You don’t even have to wear the tux we rented.”

“Kurt.” Being close to Kurt hurts, so he takes a step back, looks the other way so Kurt can’t see his face. “You don’t want me there.”

He wants to go, because he wants to be with Kurt. He realizes now though, that doing is not as easy as saying. It doesn’t get to happen just because he wants it to.

He flops down on Kurt’s bed, rests his hands on his stomach and takes a deep breath because he can feel Kurt’s eyes on him. The bed dips as Kurt sits on the edge, reaching out and putting his hand on Blaine’s leg. “Why wouldn’t I want my boyfriend there?”

Because. Look at me.

His stitches have been taken out, but it’s not hard to tell he had them. The scars are there. Kurt bought him some sort of fancy oil to help with them, but it doesn’t really matter, because he knows they won’t really fade.

He laughs, low and dark in his throat, has to laugh because it has to be a joke, and he won’t admit that it’s real yet.

“Kurt, you kinda gotta get used to me not being there.”

Because I won’t be.

Kurt doesn’t really understand the extent of that yet.

“Please stop.”

Maybe he does.

“Just accept it,” he says to the ceiling, because he can’t look at Kurt if he’s saying something like that.

“No,” Kurt says, determined, and puts his hand on Blaine’s cheek, tips his head to the side so he has to look at him. “This is my senior year. This is my prom. I want you there.”

Maybe he doesn’t.

“Yeah, but it’s not mine,” he sighs, pushing Kurt’s hand away. “Besides. Look at me. You don’t want pictures of all this.” He waves his hand around his face, indicating to the gross pink scars, the light bruising underneath his eye.

He looks so wrong, Kurt looks so right. He can’t be reminded of that five or ten years from now when they’re _nothing_ together.

A quarter, maybe more, of Kurt’s room has been packed up. His shelves are nearly empty, his closet is full of boxes. It really scares him to think that Kurt’s actually leaving soon.

“Personally, I find them hot,” Kurt murmurs, voice suddenly quiet, close to Blaine’s face. “Your scars.”

He wants to groan, feels something hot flare up somewhere inside of him. When Kurt’s voice gets like that he finds it hard to get his mind back on track, back into reality.

He pushes past it, pretends he’s fine, and reaches out to stroke up Kurt’s arm. “You know what I find hot? You in a skirt,” he says lowly, grinning too wide at Kurt. “Did you really wear one to prom last year?”

Kurt’s expression sharpens, eyes hardening. “A kilt. There’s a difference.”

“I’m not saying there isn’t,” Blaine laughs, and keeps stroking Kurt’s arm. “Sad I missed it. You’ll have to try it on for me one day.”

Then Kurt smiles, and then Kurt laughs, and it makes it that much harder to keep pretending he’s fine because he’s not, but for Kurt he’ll do anything.

Burt and Carole don’t seem to care that it’s not a real prom Kurt's going to, getting Finn _and_ Kurt to pose in the front hallway as they snap a million pictures, wiping their eyes every few shots. Blaine stays in the back, watching, trying so hard to not fucking care because prom is stupid anyways.

And then Kurt pouts, and as much as he wants to say no, he knows his reasons are stupid and Kurt still doesn’t understand them, so he drags his feet over and holds Kurt’s hand and takes the dumb picture with him.

He tries even harder then, to pretend he’s fine.

Finn leaves for the actual prom, and Kurt goes to get Rachel, and he stays behind, shoves his hands in the pockets of his pants and goes up to Kurt’s room to grab his jacket so he can go home. It’s a lot easier to pretend when Kurt’s not around.

He’s almost to the door when Burt stops him, calling him over to the couch in the living room, a small smile on his face as he turns off the TV.

He’s never actually been around Kurt’s dad without Kurt there. Fear seeps down his spine, settles in his stomach, makes him feel sick. He keeps pretending though, keeps his tone flat and his eyes bored and asks, “Yeah?”

Burt’s smile disappears, switching it out for a frown. “You alright?”

He shrugs, looks down at the floor. “I’m fine.”

“I mean your face and all. Never seen a kid look so busted before.”

He can’t stop from shrugging again, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah, it’s healing. Doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Burt nods, still looking intently at Blaine’s face, as if studying his bruises, his scars. “You know . . . as a parent, it hurts for me to look at you,” he says, a bit sadly. “But as Kurt’s parent, it means a hell of a lot.”

He takes too long of a second to process that, doesn’t understand what Burt means. “Why’s that?”

“‘Cause nobody else would ever do that.”

Then he gets it, and he has to let his arms go, has to let his whole face fall. “I -”

“You went through all that for him?”

Burt smiles, so he smiles too, gives one more helpless shrug because something that feels like pride bursts in his chest. “Well yeah, I love him.”

It’s scary to be under Burt’s scrutinizing gaze, like he’s still deciding whether or not Blaine’s good enough for Kurt, enough to love Kurt.

“He’s going to New York,” Burt says, suddenly sounding serious. “You still going with him?”

That feels like a punch, and his natural reaction is to try and fight back. He sucks in his breath, slowly lets it out, and he wants to lie and say _yes of course_ but Burt has this knowing look to him that makes it damn near impossible.

“I want to,” he says, then laughs awkwardly. “I really do. I’m just not sure if that’s possible now.”

Burt presses his lips together and nods, thinks, then looks at Blaine again and says, “If you love him like you say you do, I think it’ll find a way to work out.”

He swallows, trying to get rid of the roughness in his throat. “I hope so.”

Burt keeps looking at him, so he supposes he’s not meant to leave yet.

“You know, when Kurt first told me he was seeing someone, I was skeptical. What are the chances of him finding another him in this town? And then he brought you home and I still couldn’t believe it.”

He rubs the toe of his boot against the floor, doesn’t look up to meet Burt’s eyes. “Yeah?”

Burt laughs, says loudly, “Yeah, you’re _nothing_ like him.”

His smile twitches to the side, trying to fade, that proud feeling sinking wherever it is in his chest. “I know. Sorry, I guess.”

“Don’t be. Maybe he didn’t need another him. He needed you. Guess I get it now.”

But Blaine doesn’t. He just nods, pretends to get it, because Burt can’t mean what he thinks he means.

“Thanks,” Blaine says back, trying not to sound too hopeful. “That means . . . that means a lot.”

“Any time,” Burt says, then grabs the remote and turns the TV back on. “I’ll see you around.”

He nods, decides then that it’s a good time to leave. He’s not sure if he can handle hearing anything else.

“Yeah, yeah.”

I hope so.

-

Sure, prom is stupid and sure prom is lame and sure, he’s kind of relieved he didn’t get to go.

Still, it’s absolutely fucking humiliating sitting on the couch with his mom on a Saturday night as she drinks too much wine and cries too hard over _Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants_. Some memory.

Thankfully, some god out there puts him out of his misery, and halfway through the movie, his mom already passed out, Kurt calls him. He answers too quickly, too eagerly, wants to hear his voice and wants Kurt to tell him he’s miserable without him.

What he should hear, what he needs to hear though, is _I’m having the time of my life without you._

Some god out there puts him back into his misery when Kurt doesn’t say any of that.

_“Remind me to never give in to one of Rachel’s crazy, asinine ideas ever again,_ ” Kurt says to him, sounding annoyed and tired and Blaine wishes they weren’t talking through the phone so he could touch him. _“Tonight was almost worse than last year.”_

Blaine looks to his side, where his mom is passed out on the couch, mouth hung open as she snores.

He won’t tell Kurt that his night wasn’t much better.

“Guess I’m not sad I missed it,” Blaine mumbles quietly, though he really is.

_“Everyone ended up going to the actual prom, but I - I couldn’t.”_

He sits up, his heart deciding then to clench up, to hurt him. “Wait, wait, so you didn’t - you didn’t go?”

_“I’m not going to spend another prom by myself, Blaine,”_ Kurt says, a bit scornfully, letting out a sigh. _“Especially now that I’m not actually by myself.”_

Guilt replaces whatever’s in his lungs, can’t breathe, he just feels so bad.

You are though. You are by yourself.

And it’s all my fault.

“You should have gone, Kurt.”

You should let go.

_“Not without you.”_

“I couldn’t - you know I couldn’t be there.”

_“I know.”_

He sighs, leans back and closes his eyes to rub at them.

Kurt still doesn’t seem to get it. He _can’t_ be there. He can’t hold on he can’t keep going he can’t go with Kurt, wherever Kurt is going, because Blaine isn’t meant to go anywhere. He’s meant to stay right here, in this little town, because he’s not strong enough or smart enough or hopeful enough to make it anywhere else.

He wishes he were stronger, so he could make himself let go.

Kurt has always been the stronger one.

He’s a bad person. How does Kurt not get it yet?

“Well where are you now?” he asks, keeping his eyes closed. “It’s not too late, you can probably catch the last few songs.”

_“Blaine, how many times do I have to say it? I’m not going. I’d rather be with you.”_

He nearly groans, or growls, or swears and curses because he doesn’t know how anybody keeps their patience around Kurt, he’s never met anybody so stubborn before.

“Then come be with me.” He says it and he instantly regrets it, his heart doing the talking instead of his brain. Something in him can feel the cold touch to Kurt’s words, and he wants to fix them, wants to make him warm. “. . . spend the night.”

Phone pressed against his ear, he can hear Kurt swallow, his breath coming out in a gasp.

_“Like . . at your house?”_

“No Kurt, at the Lima Bean,” he says, unable to keep his smile out of his voice. “Yes at my house. Where else?”

He knows that’s not what Kurt was implying.

_“I - I just got home and I still need to shower and my dad would -”_

“Shower here.”

Kurt pauses, then makes some sort of strangled noise, voice coming out higher. _“Okay, I’ll - I’ll be there.”_

“Great.”

It’s too late to take it back. As soon as he ends the call he stands up, looks around frantically and tries to think of what to do, what his plan is. He starts by putting a blanket over his mom, then dashes up the stairs to his room and starts cleaning up, putting his laundry away, smoothing out the blanket on his bed.

Dumb, so dumb, he’s such a dumb young kid in love. He never thinks. Ever. Kurt takes away his thoughts and leaves him with no words but too much to say and so much to feel.

It shouldn’t be so scary, but his hands are shaking, his heart is racing or dancing or doing _something_ that hurts him in his chest.

In this room they promised the rest of their lives together. They sealed that promise and Blaine thought, he really believed, that he wouldn’t break it. But he has to.

Tonight they’re . . .

He sits on his bed, takes a deep breath and waits and he thinks. He shouldn’t be doing this, because it’s not just a body he’s touching and altering and breaking. It’s always been more than that. Sex can be anything and it doesn’t have to be anything, but then Kurt came along and it was _everything_ , because it’s more than just touching with him. It’s every word he struggles to say, every thought he thinks. Never any good with words but he can touch Kurt and Kurt _gets it._

Maybe he can make him get it tonight.

Make Kurt see.

I am not a good person. You can’t be with me.

That plans almost breaks itself once Kurt shows up, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, still in his outfit from prom, only missing his hat.

“What did you tell your dad?” he asks, taking the bag for Kurt with one hand, using the other to fold their fingers together and pull him inside.

Kurt laughs nervously, squeezing their joined hands. “That I was going to Mercedes’ house.”

“I’m sure he believed that.”

“I don’t care.” Kurt looks at him like Blaine’s worth something, speaking in a way that Blaine can never sound, so brave and so sure. “We’ll just . . . have to make it count.”

He nods, doesn’t let his grasp go weak in Kurt’s hand, and forces his smile hopeful. “I plan on it.”

He reassures him that his mom is fine, and that she’ll probably be asleep for like, another twelve hours or something because she always does this, then takes him upstairs, and he feels like a fraud, trying to appear so calm and so collected and so hopeful. He isn’t. He’s none of those things and he’ll likely never be any of those things again.

He feels like a bad person. Lying to Kurt, making Kurt believe in something that doesn’t exist. He’ll show him. Show him he _is_ a bad person. He owes that to him.

“Did you clean up your room for me?” Kurt asks, setting his bag down on Blaine’s dresser, looking around the room.

“Maybe.” He comes up behind Kurt, puts his hands on his hips and pulls their bodies closer, leans up to whisper, “Doesn’t matter. We’re just gonna mess it up again.”

Kurt laughs, giving his head a shake, and starts to unpack his bag. He pulls out a million little bottles and lotions, which Blaine expected, but what he doesn’t expect -

“You brought this guy?” he asks, voice soft because he’s suddenly dumbfounded, a stupid spark of hope flaring up in his chest, reaching for the Rudolph toy that’s resting next to Kurt’s neatly folded clothes. “Kurt . . .”

Kurt smiles a bit shyly but doesn’t look at Blaine, and continues to unpack his things. “It’s stupid, but I can’t sleep without it nearby.”

It hurts a lot more than he thought it would. He can’t shake his smile, the way the blood in his heart feels somehow lighter. Can’t stop from being so fucking in love.

He knows he will never be able to find a way _to_ stop.

He presses his lips to the back of Kurt’s neck, kisses his way up behind Kurt’s ear. This close together he can feel Kurt suck in his breath, how rigid his muscles go.

He has to make Kurt see, he has to . . .

Kurt finally lets his breath out, leaning back into Blaine’s touch, and says quietly, “I was serious about the shower. That hotel room was covered in some sort of plague, I can feel it crawling on me.”

It takes a few seconds to think of a response that’s made of actual words. His lips aren’t able to leave Kurt’s skin, so he nods and mumbles against Kurt, “That’s fine. Let me get you a towel.”

It feels kind of domestic, to stand with Kurt in the bathroom as they get ready together, smiling at each other in the mirror as they brush their teeth, wash their faces. He gets Kurt a towel, shows him where he can put his stuff, and this could have been how the rest of their lives were going to go, it really could have been. Why did he have to go and mess it all up?

“I’ll try and . . . make it quick,” Kurt says giddily, voice higher than usual.

“Cool. I’ll be . . out here, I guess.”

He’s not sure what Kurt’s doing in there, but he’s singing as he does it. His voice so sweet and so happy, so at ease in Blaine’s home, so at ease despite the scary things they’re going to be doing.

Maybe they aren’t so scary to Kurt anymore.

Blaine sits on his bed and watches the strip of light underneath the bathroom door, and collects all his hopeful thoughts and puts them away, turns his mind off, goes into that mind space where he just doesn’t care. He hasn’t been there in a while.

Kurt sings in the shower.

He wishes he could have gotten used to that.

-

By the time Kurt’s out, he’s able to push past his thoughts. All he really has to do is look in the mirror and see where his scars are, gross and bright pink and ugly. Or look down at his hands and know, just as much as he can make people feel good with them, he can hurt them too.

“I’m used to having my own shower, so I imagine we’ll have to come up with some sort of schedule in New York,” Kurt says as he comes back into the room, towelling off his hair, wearing his own pajama pants but one of Blaine’s shirts. “If we’re lucky enough to even get a shower with our place, that is.”

Blaine laughs, forces it out, and looks up at Kurt from where he’s sitting on his bed. “Or we could just shower together.”

Kurt laughs too, hitting Blaine with the end of his towel. “I had a feeling you’d say that.”

“Can you blame me?”

No more talking, he tells himself, and grabs Kurt’s hand and hauls him forward, pulling him down onto the bed with him. Having two separate voices in his head is complicated, confusing, one telling him everything he wants to hear and one telling him everything he needs to do. Two entirely different things.

Kurt doesn’t seem phased, like this is exactly what he wants, wrapping his arms around Blaine’s shoulders and kissing him first. He smells like Blaine’s soap and shampoo, which isn’t a surprise since Kurt picked it out for him, and he feels so warm and so good and so right. Everything Blaine’s not.

Between kisses and desperate gasps for air, Kurt mumbles, “I was . . . I was thinking . .” and threads his fingers through Blaine’s hair, pulling him back a little so there’s room to talk between them.

Despite how hard he’s fighting to sound strong, his voice comes out quiet and gentle as he asks, “What?”

“You know -” Kurt gives a short, awkward laugh, turning his face away. “You know these words aren’t easy for me to say.”

“I know.” He rubs over Kurt’s leg, up his thigh and down, spreading his hand out over his knee. “It’s okay. I know.”

He watches Kurt’s throat move as he swallows, as he takes a deep breath, and then he’s looking at Blaine and his blush has faded, replaced with a determined smile.

“I want to - to touch you,” Kurt says slowly, licking over his lips, and there’s something like excitement shining in his eyes, but Blaine’s mind can’t quite catch up.

“O-oh.” He blinks a few times, squeezes his hand around Kurt’s knee and turns to face him better. “Okay . . like how?”

“Like the way you did for me.” Kurt’s voice has lost its pace, words coming out quicker. “With your - mouth.”

Blaine freezes. Or well, his heart freezes, but the rest of him speeds up.

“You wanna suck my dick?” he yelps, doesn’t mean to sound so - shocked, doesn’t mean to come off so crude but _fuck_.

Kurt’s blush returns, entire face pink, and he coughs out, “I - I wouldn’t put it like that, but yes.”

“Cool.” He really isn’t any good with words, he means a lot more than _cool_.

“I can’t promise I’ll be any good, but -”

“It’s fine. I can talk you through it.”

Kurt smiles in agreement, but the look of doubt that’s now on his face settles wrong in Blaine’s stomach, and it’s not part of his plan in this act of not caring, but he loves Kurt too much to ignore it, so he leans forward and kisses the doubt away.

It works, because Kurt sinks to the floor, hooking his hands under Blaine’s knees and prompting him towards the edge of the bed, and Blaine laughs, because he’s never seen this side of Kurt before.

Don’t get too used to it.

In his heart, which is hurting more and more with every beat, he knows he should be honest with Kurt before he takes too much from him. Kurt’s only like this with him, because he trusts Blaine, because he loves Blaine. He has a right to know that while it’s the same way for Blaine, it won’t be forever.

He doesn’t have a choice.

He opens his mouth, stokes back Kurt’s damp hair, and all that comes out is, “Do you ever touch yourself?”

Kurt’s eyes go wide, his jaw dropping slightly, nothing but odd, strangled noises coming out.

“I’m not answering that question.”

“Okay, I won’t make you,” Blaine says calmly, trailing his hand down to cup the side of Kurt’s face. “But it’s like that, kind of. Touch me how you’d do it to yourself.”

Kurt breaks their eye contact and looks down at Blaine’s lap.

Doing this to Kurt was so easy, felt so right, he never thought about the opposite, how it might feel for Kurt. Being the reason for the red in his cheeks, the reason for his rapidly rising and falling chest, it makes Blaine’s head spin a bit.

He takes the drawstring of his sweatpants in his hands, unties the knot and pulls it loose, expects to push the rest down himself but then Kurt’s hands are on him, taking over, and then Blaine’s pants are in a pool around his ankles and there’s nothing in between them.

Body bracketed by Blaine’s legs, Kurt inhales and looks up at Blaine, and there’s no trace of fear anywhere in his eyes.  

“Okay . . .” Kurt breathes, voice already sounding wrecked.

He nods slowly, puts his hand back on Kurt’s head, sliding his fingers through his hair. “Go ahead.”

Kurt’s never actually touched his dick with his hands before, and Kurt seems to be fully aware of this as he touches him, his grasp soft and light and delicate, but still enough to have Blaine gasping above him.

He hardens in Kurt’s hand, feels all his blood crash and rush through his body, straight to his cock, throbbing in Kurt’s hand, and he realizes too late - fuck.

No blood in his brain, how is he supposed to _think - ?_

“Should I - is my hand too dry?” Kurt asks quietly, not looking up from where the head of Blaine’s cock is disappearing into his fist.

“I don’t know,” Blaine says lowly, trying not to grin too much. “What would you do if you were touching yourself?”

Kurt does look up then, glare sharp on Blaine, keeping the heated eye contact even as he lets go of Blaine to lick a stripe over his palm.

Blaine swears under his breath, swears even louder when Kurt’s touching him again, more wet, the glide more smooth.

“Knew it,” he mutters to himself, leaning back on his hands, hips jerking up, trying to get more of himself through Kurt’s hand. “ _Fuck_.”

Kurt speeds up a bit, like Blaine’s groan encouraged him, and he seems to have some sort of fascination with the tip, pressing his thumb against the slit, then rubbing it around the ridge, and Blaine can’t keep still when he does that, bucking forward.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s it.” His voice doesn’t even sound like him, not to his own ears, which is probably a good thing because he’s trying not to be him. He tightens his grip on Kurt’s hair, squeezes his legs around his arms.

Then Kurt surprises him, he’s always surprising him, this time with his tongue, licking gently over where his thumb just was.

Blaine’s entire body jolts, pulling too hard at Kurt’s hair, hissing too loudly.

Kurt’s tongue is wet and hot and - well, it’s Kurt’s _tongue_ , and it’s on his cock. He watches it intently, the pink tip of it peeking out as Kurt licks over Blaine experimentally, looking far too fucking - _innocent_.

Which is enough to remind him.

He’s really not what Kurt thinks he is.

“Try not to use your teeth,” he says, holding himself in one hand, using the other to guide Kurt’s head forward. “But you know, I won’t complain if you do.”

Kurt exhales loudly, and for one brief second he hesitates, the muscles in his neck tensing.

“Okay,” he whispers, meets Blaine’s eyes for an even briefer second, then leans forward and opens his mouth, closing it gently around the head of Blaine’s cock.

“Holy shit -” His breath leaves him all at once, like Kurt just punched him in the chest. “- fuck -”

If this is what it feels like to be inside of Kurt then he never wants to leave.

Kurt keeps - sinking further down, slowly, tongue moving underneath Blaine’s length as he takes it and Blaine had no idea he could feel so overwhelmed. He doesn’t know what to do, or say, or where to touch because his hands keep grabbing at Kurt everywhere, to keep him there.

It only lasts a few moments, and then Kurt’s pulling off, gasping hard, eyes watery as he looks up at Blaine and asks, “Is that -”

“Yeah yeah fuck keep going -” He pushes insistently at the back of Kurt’s head, and Kurt inhales before taking Blaine in his mouth again.

Kurt holds the base of Blaine’s cock with one hand, the other hand digging into Blaine’s thigh, nails biting at Blaine’s skin. He thinks he likes it, the stinging pain that rings up his leg.

How to make this more, how to show him, how to prove it . . . what do bad people do to the people they love?

They hurt them.

But he can’t.

He watches himself go deeper into Kurt’s mouth, too much to look at but it’s so fucking hot, Kurt’s wet, pink lips stretched around him as he starts to bob his head, like the weight of Blaine in his mouth is becoming familiar.

“So hot, Kurt, you’re so fucking hot,” he groans, deep in his throat, and fits his hand around the back of Kurt’s neck, pushing more of himself into Kurt.

Kurt struggles against Blaine’s grip, digging his nails in harder, and Blaine realizes a few seconds too late that Kurt’s trying to pull off again and he’s not letting him, so he lets go, breathing heavily, chest heaving.

“Shit, I -”

_I’m sorry,_ he means to say, but he doesn’t finish that sentence.

Kurt’s breath comes out fast, all at once, panting and coughing, his voice rough as he says, “I don’t think - I can take it all -”

He’s a bit distracted, staring at Kurt’s lips, the way he keeps licking over them, like he’s trying to keep tasting Blaine.

“Sure you can, baby,” he says soothingly, putting his hand back on Kurt’s face, brushing his thumb across Kurt’s cheek.

Kurt’s eyes go wide at the name, and so do Blaine’s, face flooding with heat.

But Kurt seems to accept it, smiling softly, leaning into the touch of Blaine’s hand and closing his eyes. “I’ll try.”

And he does, oh god - he _does_. One second Blaine’s breathing just fine and then the next his lungs have sealed up, his mouth only good for making inhumane sounds, his hands clenching into fists.

To suddenly be enveloped in heat, in warmth, in Kurt’s mouth -

He thrashes, he jerks, he leans back on his hands and bucks his hips up, driving his cock deeper into Kurt’s open mouth, and Kurt makes a helpless noise but he takes it and fuck -

He really didn’t think he would.

Kurt’s hand touches what he can’t take, fitting perfectly around the base of Blaine’s cock, tighter and drier than the suction of his mouth and Blaine’s the one who can’t take it now.

He cries out, strangled and desperate but he can’t stop, mouth unable to close, and he distantly hears a flatlining noise, his heart giving up.

Pulling off again, Kurt sucks in his breath and wets his lips and doesn't stop, leans forward and uses his tongue, licking up the side of Blaine's cock, curving against Blaine like he's meant to fit there, tasting everything Blaine's leaking like he's completely forgotten about his hesitance, his inexperience.

A million unknown touches without a single drop of fear.

And the only reason he gets to see Kurt like this is because he loves him, and Kurt loves him back.

He can’t break this. He can’t hurt him.

He’s a bad person. He hurts people, he doesn’t think, he fails whenever he tries, he _scares_ people.

. . . he’s never been able to scare Kurt.

“Stop stop,” he chokes out, pushing Kurt back. “Kurt -”

Kurt takes his mouth away but keeps his hand around Blaine, frowning as he stares down at Blaine’s still-hard cock, then darts his eyes up to meet Blaine’s. “What - what did I do?”

“Nothing baby, nothing.” He can’t stop with the goddamn name, it’s like he doesn’t even know his own voice now, can’t control a single world. It hurts him more than anything, to push Kurt’s hand away and reach down to pull his pants back up. “I just - I want to do something else. Like - more.”

Kurt licks over his lips again and nods, like what Blaine’s saying is actually making sense. “Okay.”

“Do you know what I mean?”

Kurt goes still, nothing moving and no emotion in his eyes, the only sign that he’s feeling anything is the rush of blood flooding his cheeks. So when his voice comes out stronger than he looks, it’s a surprise, barely above a whisper but not a single syllable shaking.

“. . . to go all the way?”

He brushes a hand back through Kurt’s hair and grins. “Can you say it, Kurt?”

Kurt’s blush darkens and he immediately shakes his head, and Blaine must have taken a step too far because now Kurt’s voice is breaking as he says, “No, that’s - _you know_ I can’t -”

“It’s just a few words, not that hard.”

He’s aware how hypocritical it is to say that.

Taking a deep breath, slowly letting it out, Kurt shuts his eyes for a moment and then opens them, looking up at Blaine, an equal mix of determination and fear settling across his face.

“You want to be - to be inside of me.”

Blaine wasn’t expecting that.

He’s not sure what he was expecting.

“Jesus, Kurt -” His cock twitches, his entire body throbs. “I was going for fucking, but yeah, that works.”

Kurt’s expression snaps into a glare, his lips set in a pout. “One of us has to keep things romantic.”

He laughs, tugs at Kurt’s hair and teases, “Nothing romantic about getting your ass fucked.”

Kurt immediately pulls away, the angles of his face sharpening with his scowl and he spits, “ _Blaine_ , don’t -”

Blaine reaches back for him, murmuring, “Wait, hey, I’m sorry.”

He takes Kurt’s hands and Kurt lets him, lining up their fingertips, and even though Kurt looks angry his touch betrays him, gently sliding his fingers between Blaine’s and locking them together.

Kurt’s anger fades, and Blaine knows what feeling replaces it, blown wide in Kurt’s eyes, but he can’t let himself feel it back, not with his touch at least.

He breaks their gaze and tugs at Kurt, pulling him up. “Come on.”

Kurt’s legs wobble when he stands, quickly collapsing down on the bed. And a bad person would ignore the way he’s shaking, his hands vibrating, his eyes frantically searching Blaine’s face as they lay there together.

He can’t make himself do it though. He places Kurt’s hand over his chest and lays his overtop, brushing his thumb along Kurt’s skin.

Kurt huffs out a laugh against Blaine’s cheek, his smile turning apologetic.

“I promised myself I wouldn’t turn into an actual tomato tonight,” Kurt says quietly, eyes never leaving Blaine’s. “I don’t understand how people stop from freaking out in these situations.”

Blaine gives Kurt’s hand another squeeze, his heart thundering in his throat. “Are you scared?”

He doesn’t want him to be.

But he needs to be.

Kurt’s gaze remains locked on Blaine’s, his breath coming out slowly, quietly.

“In a way that doesn’t really resemble fear at all,” he says, freeing his hand so he can tap his finger against the tip of Blaine’s nose.

Part of him isn’t sure what Kurt means. Another part knows exactly what he means. He shuts his eyes and inhales deeply, takes Kurt’s hand again and holds it close, has to keep up this charade of bravery.

But then Kurt’s hand is pulling out of his grip again, and just when he opens his eyes Kurt’s touching the side of his face, leaning in for a kiss, the remnants of their promise still on his lips.

He’s a bad person.

He is such a bad fucking person.

He has no idea what Blaine’s doing. That Blaine needs to do what Kurt thinks he can’t. He needs to scare him.

There’s no other way Kurt will let this go.

They just lay there for a bit, catching their breath, adjusting to how their bodies feel, now that they’ve crossed that line and are about to cross another.

If only Kurt could feel how wrong his heart is beating, what it’s feeling.

A brave person would use words. But he’s tried using words before, and that didn’t work out, it never works out.

He feels too young, he feels like a kid.

A kid who’s taken on too much, done too much, made too many mistakes and now he can’t fix them because they’re the problems of an adult, and he really doesn’t feel like one yet.

“Kurt?” He doesn’t even realize he’s talking, his voice shocking him, like he’s being controlled by something else.

Kurt looks up at him and smiles, rubs his thumb across Blaine’s chest. “Yes?”

Do you really believe in forever?

Do you really understand what forever with me means?

“Are you - are you sure?”

Kurt’s hand stops moving, but he never looks away. “I - I think so.”

He gets up, ignores his shaking hands, his weak legs, his cock half-hard in his pants, and he really does want to enjoy this, he does, because with Kurt this is important.

It’s important.

How does he pretend like it isn’t?

He stands by his dresser and pulls open a few drawers, looking for the condoms that have been shoved in the back since he moved in, months and months and months since he’s used them.

Kurt’s voice comes from behind him, sounding nervous and - _knowing_ as he asks, “How long - how long have you had those?”

“Longer than I’ve known you,” he says, shrugs, closing the drawer once he has what he needs. “It’s alright. They’re still good.”

One look at Kurt’s face tells him that’s not what Kurt meant.

He has to ignore the look on Kurt’s face too, because he knows why it’s there and he knows he should silence his doubts, his worries, and answer every question and every thought.

Instead he kneels on the bed, rests one hand on Kurt’s back and rubs along his tense muscles, tilting his head up for a kiss with the other.

Kurt takes his shirt off by himself - or well, Blaine’s shirt - and tries to fold it, but his hands are shaking, so Blaine takes it for him and throws it to the ground, along with his own.

Kurt’s skin is soft and warm from the shower still, and he can’t stop from running his hands down every line of muscle, Kurt flexing and tensing underneath Blaine. Strong enough to stop him.

Strong enough to let go for him, that’s what Kurt is.

Except Kurt touches back, and Blaine can’t stop him from doing that. Kurt’s fingers trace along his abdomen, and he smiles nervously before leaning forward, pressing an open-mouthed kiss right above Blaine’s nipple.

It’s different than any other time he’s done it, because Kurt hasn’t done it.

And because, well, Kurt’s in love with him, and he’s in love with Kurt.

He wants to give in and let this be everything he needs it to be, everything that Kurt thinks it is. But it’s not like that anymore, and it’s all his fault, and Kurt needs to realize that.

Kurt really is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen or been allowed to touch. The more vocal part of his brain keeps shouting, trying to stop him, _stop it you’ll break him_. He listens to the other voice instead.

Kurt keeps one arm slung over Blaine’s shoulders, pressing himself as close to Blaine’s chest as he can, his legs bent so he’s open for Blaine.

Trust is heavy. You need to be strong enough to carry trust without breaking it. He would happily try, he would _make_ himself strong enough to never drop it, but it’s been made perfectly evident that everything he touches he breaks and he loses, so he can’t.

Kurt keeps giving it to him, not aware that Blaine can’t hold onto it. So he has to make him see, has to make him stop, has to make Kurt take it _back_.

“Just breathe,” he whispers darkly, pressing his lips to Kurt’s temple, shuffling around to grab the lube. “I’ll - I’ll try to be careful.”

Kurt says nothing, just closes his eyes and does as Blaine tells him, breathing evenly until Blaine finally touches him, and then every muscle locks up, his jaw clenching, breath coming out twisted and heavy.

He keeps pushing in, only one finger because it really isn’t possible for him to use his body to hurt Kurt’s, and he can’t blame Kurt for not being able to breathe because he can’t either, because Kurt’s so tight, because nobody else has ever touched him there and how is Blaine supposed to breathe knowing that?

Kurt gasps, or maybe he cries, Blaine can’t really hear anymore.

“How’s that feel?”

His body already hurts, sweat beading at his neck, his back, and his heart must know this is the last night to feel anything because it’s beating so fast he thinks it might crack his ribs.

Kurt still doesn’t say anything, leaning back and supporting himself on one arm, the other still around Blaine.

He wants Kurt to respond though, wants to get some sort of clue to how he’s feeling, so he pulls out and uses his fingertip to coax at Kurt’s hole, gently rubbing over it. “Kurt?”

“Y-yeah -” Kurt exhales against Blaine’s neck, nails digging into his shoulder, and he pushes back against Blaine’s finger, as if desperate to have it back inside. “It’s - it’s weird but - I don’t hate it.”

So Blaine gives him more, and as scared as he is to hurt Kurt, Kurt just takes it. Kurt just breathes and keeps his body pressed to Blaine’s and keeps his eyes closed and he takes it.

The room is silent save for their inhales, their exhales, and if Blaine really listens he thinks he can hear Kurt’s pulse, can hear the rush of his blood, can hear every little word that’s going through his head.

It takes Kurt a little while to get used to two, then three, flopping back completely on the bed, arching up whenever Blaine twists his fingers, clenching down hard when Blaine uses his thumb to trace around his stretched rim.

It is a terrifying thing to do. When you’re so used to hands hurting you, he can’t even imagine what it’s like to let someone’s hands hold you, touch you, be inside of you. He doesn’t understand Kurt.

Doesn’t he get it, can’t he see?

I’m exactly like them.

I’ll do exactly what they do.

Bodies this close, this together, he can feel Kurt’s heart beat, can feel what it’s feeling, and it’s all for him.

Fuck.

He never once thought he’d be in love. He went into that school with his plan and he needed to not care or try, and now he _can’t not_ care.

He can’t not try.

Kurt lifts up his arm and touches Blaine’s face, time suddenly feeling slow and heavy.

Blaine stops what he’s doing, the gentle touch of Kurt’s hand throwing him off, breaking the rough-frantic thrust of his fingers inside of Kurt.

“What?” he asks harshly, and despite his confusion he tilts his head into the curve of Kurt’s palm, lets his eyes close.

Taking his time, like he thinks they still have eternity, Kurt lightly traces his finger along Blaine’s eyebrow until he’s touching the scar, still sensitive and fresh but Blaine doesn’t wince.

“I was serious,” Kurt says quietly, voice stripped apart. “I like your scars. They’re kind of like . . like a badge, or a medal.”

He keeps his eyes closed and doesn’t breathe, because he can only focus on so many things at once and ignoring the screaming inside of his head is his main priority right now.

How can they really be scars if they’ve been there the whole time?

“You shouldn’t like them,” he whispers, nudging Kurt’s hand. “They’re gross.”

And that’s as close to the truth as he’ll ever get.

Kurt wants to help with the condom, his hands trembling and fumbling, so Blaine opens it for him, and he shows him how it’s supposed to go on, pours a bit of lube into his hand and Kurt rubs it between his fingers and makes a face, nose scrunching up.

Blaine wants to kiss him.

Stupid little things, stupid little things to do together, to learn together. Like making space for Kurt’s toothbrush, like listening to Kurt sing in the shower, or like Kurt wearing Blaine’s shirt to bed.

Stupid little things that add up to make this _them_ , like nothing else, like nobody else.

Too much like them, too much like together. He has to show Kurt they can’t be any of those things. He has to pretend he doesn’t want to be any of those things.

He has to do what he does best, has to follow the plan that’s been there all along, long before Kurt was ever around.

Don’t care.

Don’t even try.

Just pretend.

Pretend that you don’t care, pretend you can’t try.

Kurt lays on his back, locks eyes with Blaine before pulling up his legs, asking nervously, “Like this?”

Instinct tells him to stop it. Kurt is scared but he’s not scared of _him_ , and he should be doing everything he can to make this easier for him.

He can feel the broken pieces with every move, all his dreams sitting at the bottom of his heart, tiny shards in his blood, tearing everything up and it hurts but he’s thankful.

He needs to be reminded.

“No.” His hand squeezes around Kurt’s knee, more forceful than he needs to be. “Um, can you - on your knees, get on your knees.”

Kurt freezes, looking at Blaine oddly, carefully pushing himself up so he’s sitting in front of Blaine.

“Call me a silly romantic, but I’d like it if I could see your face,” Kurt says, and his voice is light, airy, but Blaine can hear the hesitation hidden underneath.

He has to look away, shamefully, full of guilt. It’s not in his nature to deny Kurt anything, to ignore what he needs. The thing is he just can’t give Kurt any of it.

“I know, but -” He keeps his eyes trained on his hands, gives a small shrug. “It’s easier this way.”

It should be easier this way.

So Kurt nods, touches Blaine’s face again and once their skin connects Blaine realizes Kurt’s trembling still, all the way from his fingertips to his shoulders. Kurt surges forward and presses his lips to Blaine’s, no hesitation _there_ , and Blaine wants to close his eyes and give in to it but he can’t, so he pushes Kurt back.

“Come on. Turn around.”

Kurt looks hurt for a second, but does what Blaine tells him to do, which surprises him, because he was expecting a fight. Onto his hands and knees, every part of him shaking under Blaine’s touch, every muscle rigid as Blaine strokes along his back.

There’s distress lined in every word as Kurt says, “I don’t know if - Blaine - I don’t -”

“It’s okay.” He leans over Kurt’s back, hopes the pressure of his body calms Kurt. “It’ll be okay. I promise.”

And Kurt believes that, judging by how he finally relaxes, drops his head and breathes.

He’s got his back turned to Blaine, his eyes closed and his head down, trusting him even though they both know what Blaine’s body can do, what it can break.

Back to the plan. Has to stick to the plan. Can’t forget.

He gives himself a few strokes, has to remind himself that this is supposed to feel good, that it’s really not that scary.

It’s a different kind of scary.

Being the one to break things is entirely different than being broken.

He looks at Kurt’s body and it doesn’t take long to get him there. He ignores the fact that Kurt’s never been like this for anyone, that he’s only like this for Blaine and because of Blaine, and touches his hip, slides his hand down to grab at Kurt’s ass, parting one cheek.

He swears to himself, harsh underneath his breath, and shuffles forward to rest his cock along Kurt’s spread ass.

Kurt gasps, body snapping back into stiff, breath coming out quicker.

It hits him then, what they’re about to do, and how small it is in the grand scheme of things. Two dumb young kids about to be connected. Nobody outside of this dark, dark room will ever know.

But it means something big to him, and something grand to Kurt.

Because they’ll always know.

He swipes his thumb along the curve of Kurt’s ass gently, to ease the tension he’s holding, then lines himself up and tries to push in.

He figures resistance is a natural reaction, Kurt going tight, reaching forward with one arm to splay his hand out along the headboard to hold himself up. So he keeps going, can’t take his eyes away, has to watch, has to try and wrap his mind around the fact that it’s happening.

He’s inside of Kurt, and he can’t ever go back.

“Fuck,” he swears, louder than intended, louder than the way Kurt’s breathing. He shifts forward too much, and both of them make some sort of choked-off noise, both overwhelmed.

“Blaine -” Kurt’s voice sounds mutilated, not at all like himself. “Can you - go slower?”

There’s fear in his voice. And that’s why he doesn’t sound like Kurt.

It stops something in Blaine. Trying so hard to make Kurt scared of him but once he hears it his body repels it, switches tracks in his mind, tuning himself back to Kurt and Kurt’s body.

“Of course shit I’m sorry -”

Blaine stares down at his hands, both of them around Kurt’s hips now, his cock almost fully inside of Kurt, and he realizes what power he holds here and he realizes what it means to be holding it, and he realizes just how bad he is by abusing it.

Kurt just needs to get it.

With a jerk of his hips he’s fully inside, hips flush to Kurt’s ass, and as wonderful as it feels to be swallowed up by slick heat and tightness, all he can focus on is the hitch to Kurt’s breath, nothing about it sounding right.

“Kurt?”

He can practically feel it when Kurt swallows roughly, letting out a harsh, “Blaine -”

“Are you okay?”

He rubs his thumbs into Kurt’s skin, doesn’t move any other muscle.

“It’s - it’s so much -” Kurt keeps his head down, breathing raggedly.

“Can you take it?”

Kurt says nothing, just keeps fighting to breathe, and Blaine takes his absence of _no_ as a _yes_ , and starts to pull out, only to slide back in, more smooth and slow this time.

He thinks he can feel Kurt break apart, piece by piece, lowering his chest down to the bed, resting his face on his arms.

It gets easier. Kurt’s body stops resisting. Every nip of his teeth against the back of Kurt’s neck and the pinch and dig of his fingers around Kurt’s hips has Kurt tensing, then relaxing, allowing.

Every thrust feels better, more natural, more - it starts to feel _good_. But he can’t really think about that, can’t allow himself to feel good if Kurt’s not feeling the same way.

One of the voices in his mind speaks out, some part of him he can’t control, and he asks, “Am I hurting you?”

There’s something wrong about this, about not getting to see Kurt’s face, only feeling his body as it breaks.

Kurt sucks in his breath and shakes his head, and supports his and Blaine’s weight with one arm as he reaches out with the other, wiggling his fingers around until Blaine gets the idea and grabs it.

Doubt and concern wrap around his voice, drowning out the roughness. “Are you sure?”

Kurt tugs at Blaine, folds both of their arms around his chest, locking his over top of Blaine’s and keeping it there, closer now than before even though they’re already as connected as two humans can be. And then he asks, “Are you trying to?”

Like he knows.

His heart cracks, shatters, lays in a broken pile with his dreams somewhere in his chest and he shakes his head frantically even though it’s a lie.

“No no no -” he says quickly, desperately, and starts to pull himself out. “Never Kurt -”

Tipping his head back, Kurt nods, and gives Blaine’s arm a squeeze. “So keep going.”

Guilt and shame turn his face red hot, caught, but Kurt doesn’t sound mad he only sounds -

As desperate as Blaine.

“Okay -” he manages to get out, then pushes back in, fucking himself inside of Kurt more evenly, more fluidly.

He presses his fingertips into Kurt’s chest, Kurt’s heart hammering underneath his palm, and that’s all it takes to pull him back, to piece together the two voices, to connect his heart back to his mind.

He wanted Kurt to see all his ugly scars, to look at Blaine and realize who he is. But that’s just another thing he can’t try for, because Kurt never will.

Or maybe Kurt does, and he still loves him, still trusts him.

Because he’s letting him do _this_.

It’s not easy to disassociate himself from this, from Kurt. Trying to shake out the feelings and leave the motions vacant, nothing there but touches. That way when this all breaks, which it will, he won’t have to feel it because there will be _nothing there._

Doing everything he promised Kurt he never would.

Such a bad person he is such a bad fucking person -

Because he wants to do all that but he can’t he fucking can’t this is Kurt he’s doing it to he _can’t._

Because Kurt holds his heart and mind together with a tight grip, always holding on, never letting go. No matter what Blaine does.

He pulls away from Kurt’s chest and the loss of Kurt’s arm over his feels like getting smashed in the head again, and he slides out of Kurt and ignores the way Kurt whines at that, doesn’t feel right but he has to.

“Kurt,” he says fervently, quickly flipping Kurt over onto his back. “I’m sorry I’m - is this better?”

Kurt looks at him confused, eyes clouded, and it’s a shock to see his face after minutes without. But it’s Kurt. Could never be anyone else.

Is it still the same for Kurt?

One second, two seconds, Blaine’s heart freezes - and then Kurt smiles, shy at the corners and dim in the dark of the room, but still the brightest thing Blaine has seen all night.

“I almost forgot what you looked like,” Kurt says, touching Blaine’s cheek. “Hi.”

A bunch of ugly scars, representing every bad decision he’s made and every bad decision he will make, and Kurt still smiles when he sees him.

He still . . . sees him.

“Hi.”

They both lean towards each other at the same time, smiling into the kiss, and it feels - it feels new, different, like the first time but better because they know it’s them and they know what they’re feeling.

“Can we -”

Kurt tries to lift his legs but freezes, hissing out his breath as he shuts his eyes, and Blaine feels shot with guilt because _he_ did that to him.

Like he senses his worry, Kurt looks at him and reaches for his hand, pulling him closer, fitting their bodies together.

“It’s okay,” Kurt whispers when Blaine hesitates, and Blaine will never understand Kurt, ever.

For once he feels like he’s on the same level as Kurt, just as nervous and just as happy and just as in love and new to this.

It’s actually easier _this_ way. He fits back into Kurt perfectly, feeling right, feeling together and whole and complete.

He’s only ever complete when he’s holding Kurt.

Kurt’s body bends to fit Blaine, their chests touching, their hands still entwined, and they never look away.

This is how it was supposed to go, right from the very start.

He kisses Kurt’s jaw, whispers there, “Love you.” because it still feels like he’s on borrowed time, running out, and soon he won’t have the right to say it.

Kurt’s free arm wraps around Blaine’s neck and pulls him closer, and Blaine figures that’s Kurt’s way of saying it back without using any words at all.

Kurt’s body sticks to him, in every sense of the word, from their sweat-slick skin to how Blaine stays inside of Kurt as Kurt eventually falls apart.

He never lets go of his hand, stays close, opens his mouth and whines against Blaine’s ear and breaks, going tight around Blaine.

Everything he touches he breaks.

And yet even with Kurt in pieces around him, Blaine thinks and hopes and remembers that somebody like Kurt is always strong enough to help him put everything back together.

So he breaks too, lets go and follows Kurt and his hips stutter forward, pushing himself as far as he can go, jerking weakly inside of Kurt as he comes.

He wants to hate himself, but there’s no room for that anywhere in his body. Kurt’s everywhere. He can’t.

The world is eerily quiet once he’s done. He can’t even hear himself breathe.

They stay together for a few more moments, seconds seeming longer than usual. He wants to remember how Kurt feels around him, because he knows, dark and painful and wrong in his heart, that it’s the last time.

He groans as he pulls out, jaw clenching, and Kurt makes a pained noise, fingers threading tight through Blaine’s as if he doesn’t want their bodies to be apart.

All he wants to do is drop to the bed and hold Kurt close and sleep, but he has to get up, get rid of the condom, find his clothes and find something to wipe Kurt off with.

He turns on the lamp next to his bed and faces Kurt, his heart stopping short. Couldn’t see a thing in the dark but in the light Kurt’s body is red, his skin splotchy, and Blaine prays he didn’t leave any marks or bruises because they wouldn’t be any different than the ones left before, by other people.

At some point tonight he did hurt Kurt. Doesn’t matter if he meant to, doesn’t matter if Kurt even noticed or not. He still did.

He leaves the room and steps across the hall into the bathroom to find a washcloth, but also because he needs a moment away from Kurt to breathe. He makes a good effort to not look in the mirror as he washes his hands, dampens the cloth.

He’s shaking. He wishes he weren’t shaking. Kurt notices, keeping his eyes trained on Blaine’s hands as he wipes over his stomach, but says nothing.

He has to turn off the lamp, get rid of the light, because he sees too much and Kurt sees too little.

“I’m -” He sits on the bed, lets his shoulders slump forward, keeps his head down. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t what - that wasn’t what you wanted, was it?”

Kurt frowns, reaching for Blaine’s hand, words scraping along his throat as he asks, “What are you talking about?”

He’s not sure what he wanted to feel like when it was over. He wanted Kurt to hate him, to stop him, to look at him and to finally fucking see him and leave.

He was trying to make Kurt see what he sees. Maybe Kurt was doing the same thing.

“I should have made that more special for you,” he mumbles, fiddling with his hands. “Not like that. That wasn’t special.”

Should have had candles and flowers and stupid sappy music, because Kurt deserves candles and flowers and stupid sappy music. He deserves honesty and gentle touches and neverending happiness and somebody who’s just as strong as he is.

Kurt sits up, wincing as he does, but he pushes through it and moves closer to Blaine, pressing his still-naked body to Blaine’s back.

“It was to me,” Kurt says, whispering into his ear. “It was with you, so it was special to me.”

Which is what Blaine was fearing.

His bones and muscles hurt now more than they did the other week, when he was fighting against hate and not whatever it is he feels for Kurt.

Fighting to break love is a lot harder than breaking hate.

He’s still too weak to do either.

Kurt tries to get up to change and to wash his face again, because only Kurt would prioritize something like that after doing what they just did. Blaine holds him back, finds his underwear for him somewhere on the bedroom floor and reassures Kurt his face is fine, and to lay back down.

He deems the blanket clean enough for the night, and slides in under, and it’s not until they’re right against each other does Blaine realize, a smile fighting its way across his face, that they’re actually going to sleep together. He’s never done that before.

They could have done it every single night if he hadn’t gone and broke everything.

Kurt’s body feels closer now, every touch feels more deep. He reaches up with one arm and slides his fingers through Blaine’s hair, carefully pushing the sweat-damp curls back from his forehead.

He smiles, and he doesn’t have to force it, and Kurt smiles back and Blaine wishes he wouldn’t because it makes it that much harder to keep his.

And as tired as he is, he doesn’t close his eyes, because if he does then he’s sure he’ll wake up and realize this entire thing has all been a dream because there’s no way that Kurt’s real and there’s no way that Kurt loves him and there’s no possible way that they end up together.

“You should sleep,” he mumbles against the pillow, trying not to shut his eyes when Kurt’s hand slips further back, fingertips lightly dragging along his scalp.

Kurt’s eyes are wide, nothing there but blue, and he says with such certainty, “I’m not tired.”

He frowns, and his arm feels like melted rubber but he moves it to grab Kurt’s wrist, pulling his hand away. “You should be.”

“My body is. My mind won’t shut off.” Kurt twists his wrist free, only to quickly thread his fingers through Blaine’s. “I can’t stop thinking.”

“About what?”

Kurt pauses and looks away, pressing his lips together as he thinks, and then slowly looks back up.

“Are you okay?”

He doesn’t mean to laugh. “I should be asking you that.”

There’s nothing humorous to Kurt’s expression, features suddenly darkening as he tries to sit up, but Blaine tightens his grip on his hand, so he lays back down.

“I know I’m probably being ridiculous, but I - I feel like when I wake up, you won’t be here,” Kurt says, a quiet shade of panic colouring his voice. “You’re acting - differently. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

He has to force his smile this time, has to force the words to form in his head. Has to make himself lie. He rubs his thumb along Kurt’s hand and whispers, “I’m fine. Go to sleep. I’ll be here, I promise.”

Such a bad person . .

Kurt’s smile comes back, softer this time, and he leans the smallest bit forward to kiss Blaine’s bare shoulder, finally shutting his eyes.

“Then I’d like to declare this as the perfect prom night, bar none.”

He makes himself laugh, sounding fake to him but Kurt doesn’t even flinch. “You’re going to call this perfect?”

Nothing about tonight was perfect.

Eyes still closed, breathing gone quiet, Blaine thinks Kurt’s actually asleep for a second, until he moves his hand forward, resting it over Blaine’s stomach.

“Anything with you is worlds better than what’s expected.”

With Kurt’s hand on him and his body next to his, Blaine lets his eyes close, finally gives in.

Doesn’t want to sleep because he doesn’t want to wake up, because it’ll be another day closer to the end. Another day closer to something that just can’t happen.

Without Kurt’s voice in his ear, silence overwhelming the room, Blaine thinks, and the two separate voices in his head start shouting. He doesn’t want to listen to them, wants to follow what’s beating in his chest instead.

But look how far that’s gotten him.

He leans forward and kisses Kurt’s temple, and Kurt smells like Blaine’s soap and his shampoo and like Blaine’s - _everything_. He never knew he could feel like this. He never realized just how close he could feel to another person.

He loves Kurt too much to be anything other than honest. Let him be brave, just this once.

Please?

He touches Kurt’s hand, the one that’s lying across his stomach, gently brushes his fingertips up Kurt’s wrist.

“Kurt?” he asks, painful in his throat.

Kurt doesn’t move, continues to breathe out softly against Blaine’s shoulder. He thinks he’s asleep, ready to give up and follow him, but then Kurt shifts his head on the pillow and sleepily mumbles, “. . yeah?”

He can’t.

Bravery is something he’s never had clearly. He searches for it, shuts his eyes tight and takes a deep breath and prays for the tiniest sliver of courage.

Nothing comes.

How did he do it before?

Why is he trying to do it again?

But he knows, he really knows, he’s always known.

Anger and fear and every bad feeling replaces the calm in his heart, makes his throat clench up, makes everything ache and makes this that much harder.

He turns onto his side and looks at Kurt’s peaceful face, eyes still closed, breathing still quiet.

“Kurt . . . you know I can’t go to New York with you, right?”

Whatever we do, we don’t end up together.

He thinks his eyes water, he’s not sure, all he knows is that they burn, his heart burns, his whole entire body burns and he hurts and he wants it all to stop.

He thought it would make things better, but it only feels wrong, his heart shifted in his chest, every beat killing him opposed to keeping him alive.

Kurt laughs.

Kurt never opens his eyes, like he fully believes Blaine’s still there, and smiles, tired and gentle, and whispers back, “What are you talking about, silly? Of course you can . . .”

Yeah, his eyes are definitely watering, but he can’t stop it. He just closes them and accepts it, doesn’t fight against any of the pain or the voices. He knows exactly what he is, and he knows exactly what’s going to happen.

Kurt’s eyes are still closed, so Blaine can’t expect him to see it yet.

He runs a hand down Kurt’s arm, then grabs the blanket and pulls it up over their shoulders, and tries to make his mind go quiet for the night.

But he can’t stop from thinking, over and over, _Kurt, I’m a monster._

It’s what I do. I’ll break us.

-

He promised.

He knows he promised Kurt forever and he knows he can’t do that. But he also promised Kurt he’d be there in the morning, and he thinks that’s one he’s strong enough to keep.

But it turns into another morning, and another, and another until Blaine’s not really sure what the difference is.

In the back of his mind, and often in the front of his mind, he thinks about what’s going to happen, and he makes a plan. What to say. What to do. He tries to make himself forget what it’s like to be that close with Kurt, what it’s like to be trusted like that. Or else he’s sure he’ll never be able to let go.

He knows Kurt won’t.

Kurt’s too strong.

He misses Nationals.

Which is fine, because he knows he would have brought the group down. Except he doesn’t get to see them win, which hurts more than he wants it to. He doesn’t get to see Kurt win, doesn’t get to be on the stage with him holding his hand and he doesn’t even get to sit in the audience because he’s not allowed because he’s an _idiot_.

Kurt calls him right after, everyone cheering in the background, shrieking at Blaine through the phone, _“We won, Blaine, we won!”_

Kurt’s win feels like his loss.

That’s not how they’re supposed to work.

He won’t take away from that. When Kurt gets home he congratulates him and kisses him and tells him he’s proud. It’s his first instinct.

Doesn’t stop him from thinking, it’s better if I’m not there anyways, because we have to get used to that.

Kurt says that Mr. Schue extended an invitation to him to come back to glee club next year when he’s finishing his semester. And Blaine wants to laugh because his first instinct then is to say _yes_ , and he thinks back to a few months ago, when he was being forced against his will and he hated every second, and then he had Kurt and he couldn’t.

So if Kurt’s not there, then he doesn’t see the point.

He doesn’t sleep the night before graduation. He just thinks of how . . . tomorrow would have been it. That would be the end. He would have finally, finally escaped.

He knows one day it will be him. He knows this place isn’t forever.

It just sure as hell feels that way.

He truly believed he would escape _now_ , he held Kurt’s hand and thought for sure he was going to make it out. And he’s not.

So it’s hard to keep on believing.

He goes to Kurt’s house in the morning, all of Kurt’s family knowing he’s not allowed on school grounds so he’ll be missing yet another important step in Kurt’s life. Kurt hugs him with one arm, a garment bag holding his gown slung over the other, and Blaine’s genuinely happy for him but he has to force the emotion into his actions.

Before he leaves, Burt pulls him aside, away from Kurt, and opens his jacket and shows Blaine what he’s hiding, some sort of huge, medieval-looking camera. “I’ll get him walkin’ across the stage for you. You won’t miss a thing.”

It helps.

He thinks.

This is what he deserves. This is what the rest of his life is going to look like. Get used to it. _Don’t be sad because you don’t get to feel sad because you did this to yourself._ There’s nobody else to blame.

That night Kurt calls him and asks if he can come over, and there’s intention in his voice, but Blaine can’t give in to it.

He sits alone in his room and looks around and remembers every single word he’s ever said to Kurt in here, and he knows he can’t ever forget them, can’t ever un-mean them.

So he just won’t say anything else.

This is what the rest of his life is going to look like.

Never been any good with words but he’s been saying these to himself since before he even met Kurt. He knows what to say, it’s always been his plan.

I don’t know where I’m going. I never did. I don’t get to go anywhere because all I’m ever going to be is some sick kid.

If he really loves Kurt, and he does, he really really does, then he knows what to do. Might just be the only good, decent thing he ever does with his life. He needs to let Kurt go honestly.

Because he doesn’t get a say in this, he has to be okay with this.

-

He’s up until two in the morning with Kurt, talking over the phone, trying to distract him, trying to help him sleep.

He tells him he’ll be fine, that it’ll be okay, that everything is going to work out for him because there’s no way things can’t work out for him. That what’s inside the envelope is going to say exactly what he needs it to say, and that he’s going to be free soon.

He tells him everything he honestly believes, but he doesn’t say what he needs to say.

Kurt finally starts to breathe evenly, hiccuping every now and then, and Blaine wants to be with him, wants to hold him, and when Kurt dryly says, _“Thank you.”_ before hanging up the phone, Blaine honestly can’t do it to him.

The next day he sits at home and feels so entirely useless. He wants to be there when Kurt opens his letter, wants to jump up and hug him and cry and say thank you to whatever god is listening, thank you for giving Kurt this chance because Kurt fucking deserves it. Wants to see Kurt take that final step to the rest of his life, because he won’t get to see anything else.

His phone goes off sometime later, and he can’t fight his smile as he picks it up, feels anxious but mostly excited because it's _Kurt_ , and he grins wide as he answers with, “Hey, how’s my future NYADA prodigy doing?”

The line is quiet.

The line stays quiet.

He pulls back the phone to check he didn’t accidentally hang up.

“Kurt?”

Another moment of absolute silence, and then Kurt’s raspy, cold voice comes through. _“Blaine . .”_

The tone of his voice has Blaine’s blood turning cold, freezing and snapping, just like that. Panic replaces it, thrives through his veins, floods his brain.

“Kurt what - what happened? Are you okay?”

He knows he’s not. Something isn’t right. Something is wrong.

But it can’t -

Not that.

There’s just -

No.

Kurt takes a deep breath, and Blaine can hear him fall apart and break as he exhales. " _Blaine, I - I didn’t get in.”_

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly lost copious amounts of hair and sleep writing this, so it'll probably be a while before the end. Can't believe we're finally getting there!
> 
> Oh, and if you're on tumblr [it's here to reblog!](http://holdingdaylight.tumblr.com/post/140707315007/what-i-need-verse-break-summary-he-is-not-a) Any support would mean the whole world ♥


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